“Where is Tristan?” The question was a demand.
“He was supposed to drive you home. I spoke with him this morning.”
“Tristan,” I said, the name tasting like ash in my mouth, “took my car, the new Bentley, to have a fine dining experience with his family at Le Bernardin. They had a reservation.”
The silence on the other end of the line was profound. I could almost hear the calculations worring in his mind.
He wasn’t just processing a personal betrayal. He was assessing the strategic implications, the weaknesses exposed, the threats posed.
When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously quiet. “Explain from the beginning. Leave nothing out.”
So I did. I told him everything.
The way Tristan was dressed when I woke up. The phone call with the matraee.
The argument word for word as I remembered it. I told him about Tristan saying, “After everything I’ve given up for this.”
I told him about the dismissive kiss, the jangle of my car keys.
I described the humiliation of the taxi ride, the smell of the cab, the sympathetic look from the doorman.
And I told him about the text messages, the glowing photo of the perfect evening happening in blissful ignorance of my world collapsing.
I didn’t cry. I delivered the report like a CEO delivering a quarterly summary to her most important board member.
Cold, factual, and devastating.
When I finished, there was another stretch of silence. Then my father’s voice, colder than I had ever heard it even during the worst boardroom coups.
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